Page 78 of The Narrow

“I—” I begin to say.

Something shoves me hard in the back, and I pitch forward. Toward the silver ribbon of water. I twist as I fall, and my flailing hands grab hold of an arm I can’t see, fingernails digging into flesh, but I keep falling.

I don’t hit the water. I come to screaming instead, someone’s arms wrapped tight around me, my head against someone’s chest.

“Shh, shh,” that person is saying, stroking my hair. “Hush. It’s okay. Be quiet.”

A hammering knock sounds. I grope about in my confusion, trying to understand what’s happening. I’m not Maeve anymore. I’m back in Westmore and Veronica is holding me, Zoya crouched nearby.

“Shut her up,” Ruth hisses, and then strides over to the door.

I clamp my mouth closed with a whimper. The chalk circle remains, three of the candles burning steadily and the water spilled inside the circle, but Maeve is gone. I ache all over, but I don’t think my arm has rebroken, and there’s none of the nausea or dizziness that comes with the head injury.

“Yeah, what?” Ruth says, yanking the door open a few inches. A muffled voice comes from the hall. “That’s because we’re murdering someone in here! You think you can murder someone without screaming? Jesus Christ, it’s not even midnight, what are you complaining about?” Over her shoulder, she shouts, “Use an ice pick, finish her off! These people are trying to watch porn in peace! There, that should cover it. We good? Great.”

She slams the door on whatever poor neighbor had the misfortune to come check on us and stalks back over.

“Are you back?” she asks.

“Back,” I say weakly.

“Good.” Ruth turns on the lights. It’s only then I realize how soggy everyone is—Ruth’s left sleeve is soaked, and Zoya’s shirt is splattered with water. I’m completely drenched, and consequently so is Veronica, since she’s holding me.

“What happened?” I ask, dazed.

“You grabbed Maeve,” Veronica says. “She vanished and you sort of—your eyes rolled back in your head and you collapsed, and then there was water everywhere, and then suddenly you started screaming and woke up. It was only a few seconds.”

“Oh,” I say inadequately. I look around. “But everyone’s okay?”

“Yeah, we’re fine. Just traumatized for life,” Ruth says, arms crossed. “Plus, I am extremely pissed that I now have to believe in the supernatural like some kind of fucking hippie-witch dipshit. No offense, Veronica.”

“Fuck you, too; no offense taken,” Veronica says, flashing a peace sign.

Zoya groans and collapses onto the couch, face buried in her hands.

“So I’m guessing that whatever you wanted to happen, that wasn’t it,” Ruth says. She sits down beside Zoya and grabs her hand, the two of them clinging to each other as if for dear life. I don’t blame them.

“Actually, I think it was progress,” I say. I drag my soaked hair back behind my shoulders, shivering with the fading adrenaline. Veronica makes a little noise and grabs a blanket, which she wraps around my shoulders. “I saw what happened that night. Part of it, at least—the part Maeve saw.”

“You saw her die?” Veronica asks, fascinated and horrified in equal measure.

“Not quite. Thankfully, I woke up before I hit the water,” I say. Those are not sensations I want to share. “It was all so real. Like it wasme. She was waiting for Grace, but someone else showed up. Oster.”

“Dean Oster?” Zoya asks, brows knitted.

“He was a teacher back then. He tried to break them up. That night he was there. He threatened Maeve, but she told him she’d never give up, and then...” It felt so real, but the details of it are fading as quickly as a dream. “She didn’t fall. She was pushed. By Oster.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Veronica says. “He’s the dean. He’s friends with my parents.”

“And back then, he was desperately trying to keep a couple of queer girls from being together,” I snap. “You should have heard the things he was saying. He was treating Maeve like she hadsome kind of communicable disease. Like Grace caught the gay from her and if they got rid of Maeve, she’d be cured.”

“I buy Oster being a douche, but murder?” Ruth asks.

“It is hard to imagine,” Zoya says. I start to protest, but she raises a hand to stop me. “But it was a long time ago. We barely know him now. We don’t know what he was like or what he believed. Or what he might have done. You saw him kill her?”

“Yes,” I say. Then, “I mean, I didn’t see him, but that was because Maeve’s back was turned. He was the only one there.” It had to be him. Geoffrey Oster, the man supposedly in charge of our safety and well-being.

“That doesn’t answer the questions of what happened to Grace and where she is,” Zoya says.

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